


Cheap thrills

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adrenalin junky John, Angst, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Sad, Suicide, Triggers, like very very sad, mary morstan - Freeform, season 3 doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson loves danger. He loves the rush, the thrill, the buzz he gets from doing something that has the potential to put him into danger more than anything else in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheap thrills

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very sad, angsty fic in which a major character takes his own life. Please do not read if you are triggered by scenes of this nature.   
> Please comment any ideas you have for my next oneshot! Thank you and enjoy :)

John Watson loves danger. He loves the rush, the thrill, the buzz he gets from doing something that has the potential to put him into danger more than anything else in his life.

John Watson has known this for as long as he can remember. His earliest memory is of him climbing up on his bedroom windowsill and trying to jump out (his mother, who is walking past, screams and takes him down. His windows are always closed after that) and his childhood revolves around activities that inspire that rush of adrenalin: Rugby, Judo, Paintball- John has done them all by his tenth birthday. The bigger the adrenalin rush the better, and John will do almost anything to experience the thrill that runs through him when he is in danger. 

It isn't just these sporting activities that gave him the thrill, though. John regularly taunts the other children, the bigger the better, just so they will chase him round the playground and he can run from them. He’ll pinch and whine and bite just to provoke a reaction and feel that rush of pure _energy_ that he loves for. It’s best when they catch him: John often comes home bruised and bloody, but _buzzing._ He needs the thrill, the rush, the buzz like he needs water and oxygen and food: it’s an absolute necessity, and John knows he will do whatever possible to achieve it. 

It gets better as he grows older and he is given more freedom. He takes every dare, every challenge that’s given to him and he will do it readily, happily, even. John discovers that he gets the same rush when he back-chats the teachers or makes a particularly cutting comment to one of his peers and soon builds up a reputation as a bad-ass. This doesn't bother him, nothing bothers him, because it doesn't matter. All that matters is the _rush._

He goes sky-diving on his eighteenth birthday and achieves the biggest rush of his life so far, but it still doesn't feel enough. Something is missing, something has _always_ been missing, and John _has_ to find out what it is. The entire summer between school ending and Uni starting he looks for it, doing everything he can to itch the scratch he can’t get rid of, but it seems pointless. John doesn't know _what_ he’s looking for, and therefore cannot find it. He starts Uni with a heavy heart, sure he won’t find whatever he was looking for buried in books and lab equipment-

And then it happens. 

He attends a party in his second week and the girlfriend of a second-year student comes onto him, dragging him upstairs into an empty bedroom and sucking him off against a wall covered in Pokemon posters. It’s short, it’s random and it’s _amazing._

The idea that this girl’s boyfriend could walk in at any second and catch them combined with the indescribable feeling that came from having your cock sucked blows John’s mind. It’s the biggest thrill of his life and he _loves_ it. Finally, _finally,_ he has found what he was missing, and right there John vows never, ever to let it go. 

He builds up a reputation as a player, going from girl to girl to girl. He isn't looking for love, isn't looking for a girlfriend (truthfully, he doesn't think he has the emotional capacity for either) and targets girls in unhappy relationships with older boys. The idea that he is screwing these boys over, that he is responsible for the broken look on their faces when they find out just adds to the rush and John does it more and more. He’s addicted but he doesn't care, because the feeling is the best thing in his life and, he suspects, it always will be. 

Countless people call him a psychopath and John agrees with them: they’re right. He feels no guilt for what he was doing and he doesn't care about the pain he is inflicting: all that matters is the buzz. Nothing else, just that, and John will do whatever he has to do to reach it. 

He joins the army after Uni because he thinks the adrenalin experienced out in the desert will be a million times better than anything he will feel in a stuffy office in London. He’s right in terms of the physical adrenalin, but there aren't many people who’s lives he can ruin out there, and John decided long ago that _that,_ the ability to completely ruin somebody’s life, is the best rush of all. 

It’s a cheap thrill, but it is _brilliant_. 

And then he gets shot and sent back to London and everything seems grey. 

He’s injured, he’s alone and there’s no way to get those thrills that John _needs._ He’s almost at the point of contemplating suicide when he runs into Mike Stamford, one of the few people he went to Uni with who liked him, who in turn introduces him to Sherlock _._

_Sherlock._

God, John loves the man the moment he looks at him. Sherlock, with his slender frame and tense expression, Sherlock, with his tragic backstory and sad, sad eyes, Sherlock, who’s so lonely that the moment John compliments him he’s hooked, hooked forever on John’s line.  

Sherlock is just what John needs. Sherlock can give John those thrills, Sherlock can give John that rush. He’s known the man less than twenty-four hours before he’s sprinting through London after a serial killer and as they run, John knows he’s found his calling. 

The moment they reach the flat John has him up against the wall and is kissing him as hard as he can. 

Sherlock’s a good kisser, even when surprised, but John is far too busy experiencing the biggest buzz of his life to care. He’s never done anything with a man before, and he doesn't know if that’s what’s doing it or if it’s just _Sherlock,_ brilliant, breakable _Sherlock,_ but John _loves it._ Oh, he loves it. 

John shoots a man less than an hour after he fucks Sherlock outside their flat and he’s ready to do it all over again, because the adrenalin is so much better than anything he’s ever experienced before. He’s found his fix and he _loves_ it. 

He knows he’ll end up breaking Sherlock, and he knows that this will give him an even bigger rush, but he doesn't want to break Sherlock yet. He tells himself it’s because the longer waits, the bigger the rush when the inevitable happens but deep down it’s because he _likes_ Sherlock, probably more than any other person he’s ever met, and Sherlock likes him. 

They belong together, and it doesn't matter that John will break him, because for now they’re infinite. 

It gets better after the pool ( _God, the fuck they had after that)_ and then in Baskerville. Thrill after thrill after thrill, with Sherlock oblivious and John content for the first time in his life. Everything is perfect- 

And then he jumps. 

John’s heart is broken.

He didn't think he had the capacity to love but he does, he so clearly does, because he has never felt like this before. Even the thrill doesn't seem important anymore because Sherlock is _dead,_ and how could John ever dream about breaking him? They were soulmates. _Soulmates._

John doesn't need the adrenalin anymore. Without Sherlock, the world is grey and black and sad, and John simply exists. Living is a thing of the past, and with the living the adrenalin. 

He meets Mary, a nice, clever woman, and they move in together about a year and a half after Sherlock jumps. He can barely remember what the thrill feels like and he doesn't even feel like he needs it: everything is normal. For the first time in his life, John is _normal_. 

And then he comes back. 

It’s a long night with punching and stories and finally John leaving Sherlock outside a chip shop, looking so alone, but as he lies in bed next to his snoring fiancée John feels a spark of something that he’d almost forgotten. A spark that grows into an urge which grows into a longing, a longing for that rush, that buzz, that _thrill,_ and before he knows it he’s on a bus and then outside Baker Street, ringing the doorbell. 

The moment Sherlock opens the door John’s kissing him, hand in his curls, and the adrenalin rush is so good that John almost passes out. 

This time, they make it to the bedroom. John fucks Sherlock for most of the night, tearing orgasm after orgasm out of him as the adrenalin grows and grows and _grows._ How he could live without this he does not know, because John knows that he will never let it go _again._ He can’t live without the adrenalin and he can’t live without Sherlock: he knows this now and has no intention of letting go of either of them. 

That said, Sherlock must be punished, and John knows exactly how he is going to break him. He thinks about it as he fucks him deep into the mattress, Sherlock mewling helplessly underneath him, panting _harder, John, harder, God, John, John John-_ and it just turns him further on. _I’ll break you,_ he whispers as Sherlock comes for the fifth time. _I’ll break you, and it will be the best rush of my life._

When he leaves just after dawn, pulling his coat up around his neck to protect himself from the harsh wind, the world is red and blue and satisfying, again. 

Him and Sherlock settle back into the routine they had before the fall: solving cases, chasing criminals and fucking in alleyways. The only difference is that John has Mary, now, and he can’t let her know because he needs her to help him break Sherlock. Even now he can see it starting: the pain in Sherlock’s face when he sees Mary, the anger in his eyes when John kisses her, the heartbreak that John can see written all over his face when John and Mary talk about the wedding, or the apartment, or their future together. 

Now, John lives with a permanent buzz as he thinks about how he’s _hurting_ Sherlock. It doesn't matter that he loves him (because John does love Sherlock, love him with all his heart) because nothing is as important to John as the thrill, and the danger of his entire _life_ is enough to completely disregard everything else John thinks about. The danger when he sees Sherlock, when he fucks Sherlock, is amazing in itself (John almost _wants_ Mary to walk in on them, to see her broken face, but he knows the rush he will get from breaking Sherlock will be so, _so_ much better) but combined with everything else…John can barely hold it in at times. 

He asks Sherlock to be his best man. Sherlock’s face closes, and John has to shut his eyes as the rush builds inside him, threatening to burst out. He listens to Sherlock’s speech at the wedding and, for the first time, regrets trying to break him, because it’s so obvious that Sherlock has no idea what John is doing that John actually feels pity. For all his brains, Sherlock Holmes can be incredibly stupid, and John feels guilty. Thankfully this only lasts a few minutes, because as Mary’s father makes the speech Sherlock slips his hand into John’s and John knows that he’s doing the right thing. 

The thrill will make all of it _worth_ it. 

John’s daughter is born on his thirty-fifth birthday, and Sherlock is there. The moment she is born John leaves the room and sits next to Sherlock, tells him that he has a daughter and then says nonchalantly, _her name is Elizabeth Sherlock Watson._

Sherlock asks him why with those big, confused eyes and John just smiles innocently. _Because you and she are the most important things in my life,_ he replies. _Because I love you, and I love her._

John thinks about Sherlock’s face in that moment for _months._

Sherlock adores Lizzie. He takes her to the park, talks to her as if she’s an educated, intelligent adult and even _plays_ with her. Everything is working out just as John wanted: Mary has no idea, Sherlock is completely under his thumb and the rush is getting better and better. 

It’s _perfect._

He’ll spend the day with Sherlock, fuck him at a crime scene, and then go home, bathe his daughter and have sex with Mary. He knows he’s lucky, just as he knows that his luck will run out, but that doesn't matter to him because at the moment everything is perfectly balanced, and John will enjoy that. 

Sherlock is gets sadder and sadder as Lizzie ages. He starts asking John if they’re going to carry on doing this forever, if Sherlock will always be John’s _bit-on-the-side,_ and John shakes his head because Sherlock is more than that. Sherlock is the one that John loves and Sherlock will always be the one that John loves, but John has spent much too long orchestrating this to stop it now. He’s chasing the biggest thrill of his life and he will _not_ let it get away, not now. 

Mary falls pregnant again when Lizzie is five, and Sherlock has to pretend to be happy: John knows, though, that he’s close to breaking. As the pregnancy progresses John spends more and more time with Mary and less and less time with Sherlock. Sherlock starts losing weight, stops going to crime scenes, and John couldn't care less because the thrill is _growing._ That’s all that matters, all that ever mattered, and John _cannot wait._

John goes to the flat after his twin sons are born and is struck by Sherlock’s gaunt appearance. A flicker of worry surprises him, and he gets the younger man up and dressed and then sits him down with a cup of tea and says, _twin boys. William John and Scott Hamish Watson._ It doesn't matter that this goes against John’s policy of breaking Sherlock because he has never seen the younger man so sad, and for some reason it hurts _John._ Hopefully, John thinks, it’s because he’s emotional after the birth of his sons. Hopefully he’s not losing the rush. 

It has the desired affect and Sherlock is ecstatic, kissing John hard on the lips and whispering to him that he loves him, that he doesn't mind if John can’t be with him, that he understands, and John just smiles and nods and kisses him back. The buzz seems irrelevant in that moment, and John _doesn't care._

Mary is getting suspicious. John knows that he shouldn't have named all three of his children after Sherlock but he _wanted_ to, and now he must put up with strange looks and angry sighs whenever he announces that he’s going out to see him. _He’s my best friend,_ he tells her, _and he’s lonely. I have to see him. I’m all he has._

This is a lie. Sherlock has so much: his work, his brother, his experiments. Sometimes it feels like it’s _John_ who needs Sherlock, now: even with three children he adores and a loving wife Sherlock is all that matters. 

He starts spending more and more time with him, ignoring the phone calls from his wife and his children and work. He goes to crime scenes instead of the surgery, he has dinner with Sherlock instead of bathing his children, he blows off date night to watch crappy reality TV at 221B.          

He even forgets about the thrill because breaking Sherlock doesn't seem important. He’d much rather be with Sherlock than break him. 

On a cold night in January,, as they’re curled up on the sofa together, Sherlock whispers that he wants John to move back in with him. He wants John to leave his wife and come back to Baker Street. _Bring William, and Scott, and Lizzie,_ he whispers. _We could be a family, John._

John has never wanted anything more in his life. 

He goes home that night, ready to tell Mary that it’s over, that he’s in love with Sherlock, that he wants the children and then he’s leaving, but the flat is silent. He checks all the bedrooms and finds nothing: frowning, he walks into the kitchen. 

It’s on a table. A note, written by Mary, with the words, _I know. I’ve taken the children and I’m leaving the country. Have a nice life, you prick._

John snaps. 

He kicks the table, rips off the cabinet doors, throws the china at the walls and trashes the sitting room. He runs through the apartment, screaming out the names of his children but they’re _not there._ He eventually finds himself sitting in his sons rooms, holding Will’s stuffed otter and Scott’s stuffed hedgehog, crying. 

_He’s lost it all._

He’s so angry, and all he wants to do is _hurt_ someone. How _dare_ she take his children, how _dare_ she walk out on him. This was against the plan, all of this against that _plan,_ and John can’t believe how stupid he was. He lost sight of the plan, gave in to emotion and now, _now,_ it’s all in tatters. 

_He wants to hurt someone._

He doesn't really know what he’s doing as he dials Sherlock’s number. He doesn't know what he wants to say until Sherlock picks up with a _John!_ , love and surprise and joy all interwoven in his voice, and then he knows _exactly_ what he needs to say, _exactly_ what to say to hurt Sherlock the _most._

 _I’m sorry if you misunderstood, Sherlock, but I was never going to leave my life for you. I have a wife, a normal wife, and children. I have a really, really_ good _life, and there is no fucking way I would I've all of that up for a patronising, rude freak. I don’t need you. I just used you, used you since the day we met, because I could and I knew you couldn't put up a fight because you’re weak. So fucking weak, Sherlock. I used you for a thrill. Nothing more._

Silence. 

And John delivers that last blow, that final blow, that blow he knows will _end_ him.

_You were a good thrill, I suppose, but that was it. Just a cheap thrill. Worthless._

He hangs up, and then he waits. 

Waits for the adrenalin that he knows will kick in, waiting for the rush that he knows _must_ accompany what he has just said. John’s been waiting, dreaming about this moment for his entire life and he’s sure that it will be a thrill like no other. 

John sits there for twenty-four hours, waiting for the rush, the thrill, the buzz, but it doesn't come. 

John sits there for twenty-four hours, waiting, and he would have waited for another twenty-four, and then twenty-four after that, but the phone rings and he gets up, walks to the phone and answers. 

It’s Mycroft, and he’s clearly agitated. He asks if John’s heard from Sherlock, if John’s seen Sherlock, because all the cameras in Baker Street were disabled at some point the night before and when Mycroft sent someone to see what was going on all the curtains were drawn and the doors were locked. He would go himself, he says, but he’s in Japan and he’s not worried (he obviously is) enough to send someone else. He asks if John has any ideas about what Sherlock could be doing. 

John knows, but he doesn't say. He just says he’ll check, stands up, retrieves his gun from his bedroom and walks out of his flat. 

He walks to Baker Street slowly, and when he reaches that familiar green door he doesn't bother knocking. Sherlock gave him a new key a few months previously, and John uses this to unlock the door. He walks up the stairs, opens the front door, and walks to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

 _You know,_ he says, as he quietly closes Sherlock’s door and sits on the edge of the bed, _I meant almost everything that I said._ He touches Sherlock’s foot gently, nudging him. _You’re patronising and rude._ He shifts slightly to the right, turning around so he’s sitting fully on the bed facing the window. _You are a freak._ He lies down, putting his head on the pillow next to Sherlock’s. _I have used you since the day we met._ He turns so he’s facing Sherlock, cold blue eyes meeting incredible blue/green. _You’re weak._

He takes Sherlock’s hand in his own. It’s cold and dry, and John raises it to his lips, kissing it gently. _You were a cheap thrill. Just a cheap thrill. I wanted to break you, and I did._

Sherlock gazes at John, eyes still and unblinking, and John sighs, dropping the lifeless hand. _A cheap thrill that I feel in love with._ He raises the gun to his head, placing it gently against his temple, before kissing Sherlock’s cold, dead lips and once again taking his right hand. _I spent a decade trying to break you, Sherlock, and you just ended up breaking me._

John pulls the trigger, and everything goes black.

* 

John Watson loved danger. He loved the rush, the thrill, the buzz he got from doing something that had the potential to put him into danger more than anything else in his life.

Well.

 _Almost_ anything else in his life.


End file.
